


Die by the Sun

by Rottinggodmess



Category: Carnivale
Genre: Blood, Blood and Injury, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-06 03:07:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20499848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rottinggodmess/pseuds/Rottinggodmess
Summary: A rewrite of the final battle between Justin and Ben.





	Die by the Sun

Panicked screams and howls burst from the fleeing crowd as they toppled over each other like rats on a sinking ship. They pushed and shoved at one another desperately trying to escape. Brother Justin burst into the healer’s tent, bathed in dull light and snarled. His ripped suit revealed a scarred tattoo snaking across his abdomen. A rotten tree adorned his breast, it's branches etched in like claw marks.

“There you are.” He said finally face to face with the only person left standing in his way. A cruel smile scratched its way across his face. Benjamin froze like a deer in headlights. This was it: the prophecy coming true. Dirty bodies parted, a path way opening up like a chasm. He felt electricity spark along his spine the second they made eye contact. He wondered if the priest felt the same thing. Justin took a step closer and began speaking. “I have come here to judge thee and thine abomination.” His eyes blacker than poison, his presence sent more terrified people scrambling to get away. The crippled and dying patrons falling underfoot and quickly forgotten. Benjamin tried controlling his breathing and put his hands back on Father Norman who gasped out a single word.

“Run.”

Brother Justin fell the ground with an unearthly growl, pain radiating through all of his limbs as he hunched over. Bent over as if in prayer, he slowly removed a concealed sickle from his coat. It’s sharpened edge gleaming. Through clenched teeth Brother Justin continued speaking.

“They know that I am the lord's left hand,” he snarled, swinging the sickle behind himself, easily slicing the throat of an unlucky patron. He fell gasping for air and choking on his own blood like an animal strung up to bleed. “And have come to reap what my enemy has sown,” Justin continued, his voice reaching a fever pitch. “ For I shall not spare thee, neither shall I have pity on thee.” He continued through the crowd, his sickle slicing into body after body. It’s edge never dulling as more and more victims fell at his feet. Ben stood quietly, nervously taking in the scene . Dazed and breathless he found himself unable to turn away. His heart hammered in his chest, and he took tentative steps back as the priest came closer hissing. “And thy abomination will be in thy midst.” 

Father Norman shot to his feet, hand outstretched and placing himself between Brother Justin and Ben. 

“The power of Christ compels you.” He said shakily but with conviction. With one swift jab, the sickle was embedded in his stomach. As if gutting a fish, Brother Justin dragged the blade through the older man’s soft flesh. He leaned in as he spoke. “Behold, The Holy Evil is come.” He punctuated each word with an upward yank of the blade through tissue and bone. Ben fled. 

Through the dozens of tents, and parked cars, he ran. The hammering of his heart thundered in his ears. He spared glances behind himself but didn’t see the priest: just the concerned faces of carnies. The corn field quickly came into view and he dived in. He figured this was a good enough place as any to lose him, if even for a brief moment. Thunder clapped in sky and lightening bathed the night in a sickly blue hue. He felt as if he was dreaming. Visions of a pursuit, of the same damned tree tattoo; the players were different, but the fear echoed the same. The burning of his lungs drew him back into the present. An upturned root impeded his escape and he tripped. Inwardly cursing he turned around, his chest heaving with deep lungfuls of air. Ben pulled the knife from his boot, he held onto it tightly, his knuckles turning white from the strain. 

Slowly standing up, Ben strained his ears listening for anything. Brother Justin jumped from the cover just as lightning illuminated the sky and thunder roared. He slashed the blade down, snagging Ben’s arm. Ben hissed drawing his wounded arm close to his chest and took off. Justin’s laugh seemed to surround him, almost triumphant. He felt like a lamb prepped for slaughter. He kept running, frantic and disoriented. Stumbling and without warning, he crashed into a scarecrow. It’s eyes empty black pools, it kept vigil. Ben froze under its cold scrutiny. He had an idea. With a quick glance behind him, Ben ripped the scarecrow from its perch. Donning its coat and hat, he took up the mantle and waited. 

Brother Justin followed behind, slowly and methodically like a predator chasing his prey. From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of something shiny and wet: blood, fresh blue blood. The blood of his prophet. He brought the leaf up to eye level and inspected it. The rich iron smell warmed him and he felt an involuntary shiver skitter across his skin. As if under a spell, he brought the leaf to his mouth. The second the blood hit his tongue he felt himself harden. He snarled and chuckled under his breath. With renewed vigor, he pushed forward. Stalking with purpose he passed by the same scarecrow, the makeshift wind chime rustling gently. He paused listening intently for any sign of movement. His hesitation was just enough time for Ben to jump out of his hiding place and attack. Though smaller and quicker, Ben's slash was deflected. The blade of his weapon snapping off at the hilt and disappearing in the overgrowth. Brother Justin took advantage of Ben’s shock and sliced the tip of his sickle through the soft flesh of his abdomen. Blue blood stained his clothes and pooled under him as he winced in pain. Gritting his teeth, Ben looked up at Brother Justin who’s smile dripped with malice and venom. 

“Look at you, boy. Such a sad mess.” He cooed kneeling down beside Ben’s prone form. Justin put his large hand behind Ben’s head, fisting the short hair. Pulling him forward, Justin ignored the pained gasp and whimpering that fell from Ben’s mouth. He looked him over, though they met briefly in shared dreams, Justin never had the chance to really look at him. He was so small, skinny and dirty. Justin could feel wiry muscles held taunt beneath his filthy skin. He looked emptier than the first time Justin saw him in that diner. The bags under his eyes revealing his exhaustion. Ben avoided eye contact, curling inward. 

“So young…” he trailed off. Ben started shivering, clenching his wound to staunch the bleeding. Justin watched it bubble between his fingers with silent interest. The air hung deathly still between them. Justin leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together. Ben tried to pull back but Justin’s hand held him firm. He gripped Justin’s wrist tightly, grounding himself. Ben was breathing hard and the sweat cooling on his skin made him feel sickly. Justin felt the thrill of victory thrumming underneath his flesh, it was almost a shame the battle would be over so quick. 

“My Lamb, you have been quite the thorn in my side.” He whispered, dragging the rounded part of the sickle along Ben’s chest. 

“Fuck you.” Ben growled through clenched teeth. He shot a glare at Justin before glancing at the blade in his grip. “Hush my dear." Justin sighed before placing a kiss to Ben's forehead and leaning back. Ben jolted as if he was scalded, a wave of nausea nearly crushing him. He squirmed in Justin's grip once more, but the adrenaline was slowly dissipating leaving his muscles aching and his head pounding. 

"Do you feel it?" Brother Justin whispered, "how irrevocably we are tied together? I wonder what could have been had I found you before your carnival cohorts." He stared down at the younger man with eyes burning. The carefully crafted persona he always wore shattered, there was no reason to hide anymore. Beneath him was his nemesis, the one prophesied to destroy everything he had built. Justin could almost weep with joy. 

"I would have never followed you." Ben snarled. Blood continued to ooze from the wound. He knew time was running out, he just hoped that Samson had a plan. 

"I truly doubt that, my son." Justin said with certainty. Indulging a brief impulse, he dropped the blade and pressed his empty hand to the slick blood stained one Ben was using to cover the wound. He winced and let the breath out through his teeth. "I would have made you submit. You would have belonged to me, and me alone. My avatar." He said barely above a whisper. 

Ben tried pulling back again but was unable to remove the hold Justin had on him. This was too much, too overwhelming; he felt as if his head was spinning. Bile rose in his throat. "I know you feel this, how perfectly you fit beneath me." Justin leered. "God's plans are often funny like that." He chuckled before yanking Ben's hand away from the weeping gash. Ben cursed, his whole body going taunt like a steel wire. Justin placed his hand over the cut, running the tips of his fingers along the edges of the torn flesh. Tears fell freely from Ben's eyes as he shut them tightly, trying to ignore the searing pain. The dull thrum of pain becoming a cascade of agony under Justin's prying attention. As if in a trance, Justin slid his hand up Ben's chest, leaving a trail of blood. He cupped the smaller man's cheek, rubbing small circles with his thumb. 

“Some Gods require a sacrifice, my dear.” 


End file.
